Under His Spell. Kathy Lyons

made everything more surreal, not less. Especially since they hadn’t really been pals. More like, oh-there’s-that-kid-who-lives-down-the-street acquaintances. And yet, because of that wonderful prom night, she was so much more important to him than just that. He scrubbed a hand over his face and went to lean against the bathroom door. “You have to come out of there sometime, you know.”

      It took a few moments more before he heard the tap shut off. And then a soft voice wavered through the door. “Um … do you … um … know where my clothes are?”

      Okay, that did not sound good. Her voice was high and tight, but he tapped down his nervousness and made sure his voice sounded calm. Stay casual, he told himself. It’s no big deal. And wasn’t that the lie of the century?

      “Sure. I’ll go grab them.” He made quick work of it, though it took him a moment to find her blouse on his porch railing. Even with his hangover, he couldn’t resist smiling at that, not to mention what they’d done at his staircase railing. Last night had been beyond anything he could have expected. Now he just had to make sure she stayed in his life.

      “I’ve got your clothes,” he said when he returned to his bedroom. “Did you want—”

      The door opened a crack and a hand snaked out to grab her clothes. He tried to delay a bit. He didn’t hold on to the clothes, but he put his other hand on the door and tried to talk calmly.

      “You want coffee or something? I’ve got … um … bagels. And cereal.”

      It didn’t work. He caught the briefest glimpse of big eyes and dark circles. Lower down, his blue towel wrapped around pale skin. Then the door was firmly shut again.

      He sighed. His head was pounding too much for him to think clearly. He wanted to be suave, to say something that would make it all better for her, but he just didn’t know what that would be. And while he was still standing there without a clue, the door to the bathroom quietly opened.

      He tried a winning smile. “Hey there.”

      She looked pale standing there in her wrinkled business suit. Her hair was loose, falling about her face in pretty waves. But it was the bruised look to her eyes that held his attention. And that she wouldn’t look him in the face.

      “Nicky …” he began, but stopped when she flinched.

      “No, thanks,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “About the coffee. But if you … Do you know where my shoes are?”

      He blinked and looked down at her bare feet. Her feet were unadorned. Even her toenails weren’t painted, and he found the sight oddly delightful. If only she didn’t look as if she was about to bolt.

      “You kicked them off downstairs, I think.” He didn’t say what they’d been doing when she lost them. But then he saw the hot flash of color in her cheeks, and he knew her mind had already gone there.

      He shifted awkwardly, wishing he knew what to do. “Let me take you out to breakfast. We can talk. Catch up.”

      She shook her head. At least that’s what he thought she did, though it was hard to tell, given the tight set to her shoulders. “Um, I have to get to work.”

      “I really want to talk to you, Nicky. Just talk.”

      She bit her lip and he realized that, except for that small movement, she appeared to be frozen in place. When she spoke, her words came out in a high whisper. “Look, you don’t know this about me, but last night … I never … I mean, that’s not me. I don’t … do that.” Her eyes darted briefly for a moment to his bed, then back to the floor.

      He looked at her, and his mind struggled with her words. If he weren’t so hungover, maybe he’d be quicker on the uptake. “Of course I know that. Nicky …” He took a step forward, and she gave a little pip of a squeak and shied backward. She was scared of him! He stared at her, his mind fumbling through the facts.

      “What’s my name, Nicky?”

      She didn’t answer. At best, her eyes went wider in horror.

      He swallowed, feeling the sucker punch to his gut once again. It shouldn’t make a difference. So she didn’t remember who he was. His brother was right: he hadn’t been that memorable in high school. But this was Nicky. He’d shared the best night of his life with her. He’d forged a connection with her, damn it. Twice! Back years ago on prom night and again last night. She had to remember him.

      “What’s my name, Nicky?” He still spoke quietly, but the gentle had gone out of him. His words came out more as a low command.

      “Magic?” she finally said.

      He stared at her, his pounding headache receding beneath the bare truth. “No,” he said slowly. “That’s not my name. Nicky, look at me.” He was pleading now, praying that in the harsh light of day she could look at him and know him. In fact, he stepped over to the curtains, hauling them open so that the sun shone harsh on his features.

      She winced at the sudden flare of light. He did, too, for that matter. She swallowed and visibly drew in a breath, obviously trying to steady herself. Lord, he hated seeing her like that. She looked as if she was about to throw up.

      “Let me give you a hint. We went to high school together.”

      She blinked. Her expression shifted away from nausea, more to an intense confusion as she peered at him.

      With a curse of disgust, he grabbed his glasses from his dresser and plopped them on his nose. “How about now?” he asked, then he gazed at her with a moony-eyed adoration that was, unfortunately, reflected in the mirror. He only saw it in his peripheral vision, but it was enough to churn up a well of self-disgust.

      “Oh, my god! Jimmy Ray?”

      “I go by Jim now. Sometimes James.”

      Her hands dropped to her sides as she frowned, looking at him from top to bottom and then back up again. Her shoulders relaxed, but only a fraction of an inch. And then she just shook her head. “Jimmy,” she murmured, half to herself. “You’ve filled out.”

      “I work out,” he returned. And was there ever a more inane conversation?

      “Wow, Jimmy … uh, Jim.” She bit her lip. “You’re … a magician?”

      He shook his head. “I’m an engineer who plays a magician on amateur night. Rick—my brother—owns the club and he calls me when they’re short an act.” Then his pride forced him to add, “But I’m a good engineer, so I’ve done well. And I’m taking a little time off right now. To … um … play.”

      “Ah,” she said, nodding her head. He could tell she didn’t know what to say any more than he did. “Well, you always were good at anything you tried.”

      Not true. He’d tried to impress her and had obviously failed miserably. But saying that would be surly. Humiliating, too. “You look like you’re doing well,” he said, gesturing to her wrinkled clothing. “Power suit and all.”

      “Corporate America and all its pressures.” She shrugged. “I manage some distribution nodes for Korner Plastics.”

      “Impressive.”

      “Not really. It just requires a lot of time and attention to detail.”

      “And you always sold yourself short,” he returned.

      She didn’t answer. There was something in her eyes that he remembered, a vulnerability or an ache maybe. As if she wanted to believe what he said, but was too afraid. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, the déjà vu making him reel. Hadn’t they played this scene before? Like ten years ago on prom night?

      Before he could answer that question, a double electronic note sounded from downstairs. Beepbeep. Beepbeep. Her eyes widened, and her gaze hopped to the red numbers on his clock—9:14.

      “Oh, crap. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap!” Then she dashed downstairs.

      He